


the dust of daily life

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Guilt, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asriel tries to become a well-rounded individual with friends and hobbies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dust of daily life

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for self-loathing, depression, suicidal ideation, dissociation, panic attacks, and references to self-harm and grief
> 
> LMAO I hate myself sometimes and also I like asriel a lot, so whatever, this happened
> 
> PROJECTION: THE FANFIC

You are unequivocally a bad person.

You know this even without anybody saying so. They don’t _have_ to say so. Good people don’t do the things you did. Good people don’t have the thoughts you have. 

Nobody will be honest with you. They’re too busy reassuring you that they don’t blame you, that you can get better, that you’re already _doing_ better. Sometimes they even have the audacity to say that it wasn’t your fault, as though it hadn’t all begun with you: as though you hadn’t brought Chara the flowers, hadn’t refused to fight back, hadn’t given up and let your sanity splinter.

Everybody tells you they don’t hate you, but that’s okay. You’re doing a fine enough job of it yourself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Progress used to look like recognizing guilt. Now, progress looks like finding ways to fill your time that don’t entirely revolve around that guilt.

“You could take up a hobby,” your therapist suggests. “What do you like to do?”

“I don’t know,” you say. It’s not something you’ve thought about in quite some time. Before, the boredom that was clawing at you from the inside out drove you to do anything that felt _new,_ anything that promised to alleviate the tedium of a life you were too cowardly to end, but you hadn’t been able to register anything you’d done as fun _._ There had only been diverting and not diverting; things that had occupied your time and things that you had given up on as too meaningless to fill the endless hours with.

“You told me once you used to draw,” she says. “Do you think you might like to do that again?”

“Maybe,” you reply.

No. You wouldn’t. You may have drawn before, but you’d drawn stories that had come to life in awful ways, and you’re not sure if you can bring yourself to open your old sketchbooks and confront all that again.

“It might be a good idea to find something you can do to unwind,” she says. “Can you promise me you’ll try and find something you would like to do before our next session?”

You promise that you’ll try, because you’re a good boy who does as he’s told, and then when you get home you gather all your notebooks and your pencils and you hide them underneath your mattress where you can forget they exist.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They want you to be calmer, _they_ meaning _everyone_ —your therapist, your parents, Frisk, and sometimes even Chara. They want you to let go of all those vicious instincts you’d adopted in the name of clinging to whatever will to live that you’d still had, as though doing so won’t leave you with nothing at all.

Until you can figure out how to do that, you have little white and orange pills you take, pills that scrape the anger and anxiety out from under your skin and leave you feeling raw. But although they leave you feeling clean, they also leave you feeling empty: without the anger, without the guilt, what’s even left inside of you?

Maybe taking up a hobby would be a good idea after all. At least then you’ll have something new to talk about.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Chara likes to knit.

Your mother taught them how to long ago, back when their anxiety would sometimes drive them to hurt themselves. It was something for their hands to do that wouldn’t lead to pain, something productive, and they latched onto it eagerly. Even when they don’t have projects that they’re working on, they’ll still sit and knit for hours, producing aimless woollen squares and later unravelling them all with a gleeful smile on their face.

You don’t get twitchy like Chara does, but you can still understand the need to hurt. You do it yourself sometimes. It’s easy enough, with claws. All you have to do is drag a finger down your arm, and there, a shock of pain, sharp and fresh enough to serve as proof that you’re alive and can still feel, just enough to sustain you for another day. Even the regret you usually feel afterwards is comforting in its own way. It’s not _fun,_ sure, but feeling anything is infinitely better than feeling nothing.

One day when you’re burying your claws into your arms—not a lot, just enough to feel a little lighter—you remember watching as your mother once sat Chara down with a pair of needles and a bundle of pink wool and you have the beginning of an idea.

“No,” Chara says when you ask them, looping dark green yarn around their fingers.

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t be very good at teaching,” they answer calmly.  

“That’s not _really_ why, is it?” you ask with a frown.

Chara shrugs. “Think what you like.”

You watch them for a moment longer, knees pulled up against your chest. They don’t even look at you, too absorbed in the clicking of their needles, and you feel an unpleasant mixture of guilt and irritation. They’d clearly been absorbed when you’d first come to find them on the window seat where they most like to work, but some stupid, selfish part of you still wants them to put the needles down and _pay attention._

“You could ask your mother,” Chara says abruptly. “She’s the one who taught me, after all. I’m sure that she’d be happy to teach you as well.” 

“I don’t want to,” you sullenly reply, and although Chara’s still not looking at you, they quirk an eyebrow in a way that makes your neck grow hot.

“If you’re just looking for a way to pass the time, then maybe you should find something you already know how to do,” they say.

You don’t sense any true hostility from them, but the lack of warmth is a dismissal if you’ve ever heard one, and although it makes your stomach hurt, you’d like to think you’re not so horrible that you’d ignore so clear a statement. So you slide off of the window seat and wave goodbye before returning to your bedroom, trying to think of something else that you can do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grief isn’t a solitary thing, an isolated incident that can be abandoned like an outgrown sweater as the years go by.

You know that.

What you _don’_ t know is what you’re supposed to do when you watch your best friend die and then come back. 

Nothing about what happened to you two is normal. You’d watched Chara sicken and die over the course of several weeks, then died yourself before you really had a chance to process it. When you came back, you knew, logically, that you had lost a part of yourself along with them, that you had given them your heart long ago and that they’d taken it with them when they died. But you’d been numb, unable to fully comprehend what that knowledge meant, even as the weight of it had crushed you.

When you regained your soul, the full force of the grief you’d had no way to feel had hit you all at once. You had thought that you would drown in it. You had thought that dying yourself might be preferable to having to endure, even as you’d thought they’d stood before you.

But then Chara came back for real. And now, everything is muddled.

They’re here, and yet a part of you is still in mourning. They’re here, and yet a part of you is still unsure, still wondering if you might be dreaming. They’re here, and yet nobody seems to understand why that alone can’t be enough for you, why you need to stay by them and not let go.

It’s just another way that you’re all twisted up inside, you guess. Just another reason why you need to change.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As far as you can tell, you’re only already good at three things.

  1. Hurting people
  2. Ruining everything
  3. Using a pencil



You ask Chara what you can do with a pencil other than drawing, because there’s something sickeningly intimidating about the wide, wide world of possibilities before you. They suggest shoving them in the eyes of your enemies, and you tell them that you don’t want to do that, and they say that you should probably ask Frisk instead.

You ask Frisk for hobby ideas and their face lights up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“How is this a hobby?” you ask Frisk in the car.

They sign, _making friends is my hobby._

“But what am I supposed to _do?”_

_Make friends,_ they reply before giving you a stoic thumbs up.

“That’s not really an answer…”

_Don’t worry. Papyrus is easy to make friends with_ , they sign, this time with a tiny smile. 

You guess that’s the best that you’ll be getting from them, and so you lean back in your seat and try your best to relax.

Going to a house that’s not your own or your father’s shouldn’t be this scary. You used to go all _kinds_ of places Underground, like Waterfall and Snowdin, and you were always welcomed with a smile. Because you were the prince, sure, but…

Well. There isn’t really a _but._ You were the prince, and so they welcomed you. Nothing about you as a person is particularly likeable. The best that you can hope for now is pity. You can only hope that pity is enough to carry you through the coming afternoon.

You’re relieved that Frisk is coming with you, because you have no idea how to approach Papyrus by yourself. In theory, you could simply show up on his doorstep and he’d welcome you with open arms, seeing as how Frisk had apparently called in advance and got him to agree to humour you for the afternoon. But you still have his brother to worry about, and the thought of going without backup terrifies you.

You’d have gone with Chara, but they’d straight-up refused. “Sans hates me,” they’d said with an enormous smile, and you can’t really blame them for not wanting to go anywhere near him if they think he doesn’t like them. You’d lost track long ago of just how many resets he’d caused you, but you know it must be somewhere in the high hundreds, if not the thousands.

So you go with Frisk, and pray that you won’t mess things up too badly.

Papyrus is the one who answers the door. _His garbage brother is probably too busy being lazy,_ something vicious whispers in the corner of your mind, but you ignore it, pasting on a polite smile as he and Frisk engage in what is probably the noisiest hug you’ve ever seen. Remarkable, really, especially considering how one of the involved parties doesn’t even speak.

_I’m going to watch TV with Sans,_ Frisk signs in the foyer as Papyrus chatters on about…something. You’re not sure. You’re having trouble listening. _So it’s up to you from now on, okay?_

You don’t want to answer them out loud, but you’re not very good at using sign language, and so you simply nod. Frisk gives you another thumbs up, then pokes Papyrus in the side, causing him to whirl around.

They point towards the living room, and somehow, that’s all the information Papyrus needs. “An excellent idea!” he cries energetically, hands on his hips. _“Someone_ has to keep an eye on my slugabed brother! Or…slugacouch, I suppose. Either way, _someone_ has to do it, and Asriel and I will very, very busy with our friend-making, puzzle-solving activities! Which you may also do, of course, but from the living room. A most exciting and unprecedented puzzle venue, come to think of it!”

“Already started, bro,” comes a sleepy-sounding voice. “I’m solving the puzzle of whether or not this guy wants to be a millionaire. I’m thinking…he does.”

“Sans!” Papyrus scolds. “That’s a mystery, not a puzzle! Shame on you!”

Frisk gives you a tiny wave farewell, then goes to join Sans on the couch. He turns his head as they approach, and that’s all it takes; just a glimpse of his face and you’re struck by a wave of residual anger and fear, all knotted up with shame and guilt and the memory of pain. He doesn’t even have eyes, only empty sockets like any other skeleton, and yet he somehow always manages to look at you as though he _knows_ , knows every awful thing you’ve ever thought or felt or done, and…

“Come along, Asriel!” Papyrus says, and then he’s dragging you upstairs, away from the pressure of the living room.

You’re not sure whether he does it on purpose or not, but you find that you’re too grateful to care.

Sans can’t possibly know the full extent to which you’re horrible, you remind yourself as Papyrus shows you into his bedroom. He _can’t._ He may have worked things out, but you’ve tested him before; he can’t remember the specifics.

But telling yourself that doesn’t help as much as you had hoped, and so you take a deep breath and return your attention to Papyrus.

The puzzles Papyrus promised as a friend-making activity turn out to be a dozen or so human newspapers stacked tidily atop a desk. You pause when you see them, confused.

“Nothing brought Frisk and I closer together than bonding over our mutual love of puzzles!” Papyrus proudly declares when he sees the bewildered expression on your face. “And so, it was my brilliant idea to replicate that experience here today! Using _word_ puzzles! They’re good for the mind, you know! They keep you sharp! If you’re looking for a hobby, then look no further than your local dumpster! That’s where I found all these, you know. Can you believe that humans would throw away such perfectly good unsolved puzzles?”

“Chara says that humans are all wasteful,” you say, reaching for the one on the top. “So I guess so.”

Papyrus frowns at that. For a moment, he looks almost lost for words, but then he simply sighs and shakes his head.

“A shame,” he says, and if it were anybody else, then you’d describe the mourning in his voice as _exaggerated_. “Absolutely tragic, that humans would so neglect to appreciate the efforts of their media to educate and entertain them. Fortunately, you and I are here to see that their efforts do not go to waste! Let us begin, fellow puzzle-enthusiast-to-be!”

It takes you about a minute and a half to solve last Tuesday’s Junior Jumble.

“Wowee!” Papyrus cries when he looks over the completed page. “I must truly be a wonderful teacher, for you to have picked up on the intricacies of the Jumble so quickly! Excellently done!”

“Um,” you say, rolling the pencil in your hands. “Thank you?”

“No, no, no, you mustn’t sound so doubtful when accepting praise!” he sternly replies, waggling a red-gloved finger. “You must accept it _loudly!_ With _force!_ The puzzle is solved, and so there is to be no question of whether or not the praise is called for! Let us try again! _Excellently done!”_

“T-thank you,” you say, a little louder this time.

“You must be very smart!”

“Thank you!”

“Now let us try another!”

“THANK—oh. Okay,” you say, flushing.

It takes you even less time to solve the second one. And the third one. And the fourth.

“Huh,” Papyrus says. “Perhaps I am teaching you too quickly! That would be a shame, to run out of puzzles so soon. Let us try something else. How do you feel about _crossword_ puzzles?”

Crossword puzzles are a little trickier, because you can’t just look at the letters and rearrange them in your head. You have to read the question first, and so this time, it takes you about three minutes to finish the whole thing.

“Absolutely astounding!” Papyrus cries when you fill in the final square. “You must be a puzzle _prodigy!_ How fortunate you are, to have been given the opportunity to train under one as skilled as I! This must be the beginning of a long and fruitful career as—”

“Um,” you interrupt, even though it makes your stomach hurt a bit to do so. “I don’t think that’s it, exactly.”

“Oh?” Papyrus asks, and you think that he’d be raising his eyebrows if he had them.

You feel as though your throat has turned to stone. Still, you need to try and explain. If things continue like this, then he might start to get his hopes up, and you’re not sure if you can handle disappointing _him_ on top of everybody else.

“When I was…” you begin. “I mean, _before,_ back when I…”

Papyrus nods, apparently in understanding, and you feel stupidly grateful for the silent permission to continue. You’re not sure if you can put what happened into words just yet, leaving you unsure of how to properly distinguish between _then_ and _now._

“I got…bored…a lot,” you explain, lowering your gaze to the pencil clutched so tightly in your hand that it feels like it may splinter. “And sometimes, in my head, I’d play games like this, just to pass the time. So…I don’t think I’m a prodigy, exactly, I’ve just…done them a lot. In a way.”

The awkward silence you’re expecting never follows, because instead, Papyrus leaps to his feet in excitement, having been sitting cross-legged on the floor with you a moment ago.

“Well!” he cries. “Then that means you’d be excellent at _making_ such puzzles, wouldn’t you? How fortuitous! Not merely a fellow puzzle enthusiast, but a fellow puzzle _master!_ Truly this is a great day!”

“Uh,” you say.

And somehow, that turns into an afternoon spent pouring over Papyrus’ many, many puzzle notes. You offer quiet suggestions, to which he offers loud, enthusiastic thanks, until finally, a quiet knock is heard and Frisk pokes their small head through the door.

_Mom’s here,_ they sign.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Your phone buzzes once on the drive back home.

It’s a text from Papyrus.

_FUTURE COLLABORATIONS BETWEEN MYSELF AND A FELLOW PUZZLE MASTER WOULD BE WELCOME ANY TIME!!!_

_You don’t have to pity me,_ you want to say. It was kind of him to play along, especially seeing as how he’s one of the few people you don’t actually have _that_ many bad memories of, but surely there’s a limit to such kindness, isn’t there? You hung out for a while, you tried your hand at word puzzles, you’re _done._ He doesn’t need to keep pretending.

Even so, you can already hear him bellowing something about not doubting the Great Papyrus.

So, you don’t type any of that. Instead, you just type _thank you._

Your phone buzzes again a moment later.

_NO, THANK YOU!!!! IT IS VERY EXCITING TO HAVE ANOTHER FRIEND ON THE SAME LEVEL AS I._

_Friend? He really must be stupid,_ whispers that vicious something in your brain. _Doesn’t he remember what you were? What you did?_

You ignore it.

_At least Smiley Trashbag seems to get it._

You ignore it. You ignore it you ignore it you ignore it.

You slip your phone into your pocket, then close your eyes and try to forget that you exist.

 

 

* * *

 

 

[Text from: Papyrus (?)]

hey, kid.

how are you doing that with the font????

don’t worry about it.  
i just wanted to say thanks for being so nice to my brother.  
he seemed pretty happy when you left.

 

is this the part where you warn me to leave him alone via a series of threatening puns

wow.  
do you mouth off like that to your mother?

  
LEAVE MY MOTHER OUT OF THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

just messing with you, kid.  
and nah, i’m not gonna warn you, cuz i’m pretty sure you heard it from me a thousand times before already.  
i don’t have the energy for repeating myself.

um

i saw how nervous you were.  
you don’t have to be. if you’re friends with my brother, then we’re cool.  
and you’re tori’s kid, so you can’t be that bad.  
besides, it’s not like i can remember you ever causing trouble in the past, right?  
gone quiet, i see.  
that’s fine. just so long as we understand each other.

does my mom know you like to threaten little kids.

come on, don’t be like that  
you’re the one who said to leave her out of this  
and i’m trying to be sincere for once. i promise. no threats.  
i’m tired.  
i don’t want to keep feeling like i gotta keep an eye socket out for the next bogeyman to ruin everybody’s happiness.  
i’m trying to give this “trust” thing a shot, see?  
so as long as my brother and the human consider you a friend, then i will too.  
i won’t say anything if you come here to hang out sometimes.  
we just probably won’t ever be the kind of friends who go down to the malt shop together or anything.  
is that fair?

yeah, that’s fair  
sorry

you don’t have to apologize, kid. i probably could’ve been a little nicer.  
still, old habits are hard to break, you know?  
well…you probably do, actually.  
everyone’s just doing their best, i suppose. gotta give people credit for that.  
people are rooting for you, you know. try not to let them down, ok?  
heh  
“rooting”

I’m turning off my phone now

 

 

* * *

 

 

You don’t sleep well that night.

But you guess that’s nothing new.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Chara once again brushes you off when you try and talk to them about hobbies, apparently too busy knitting something unidentifiable and green. You’d had some vague hope that leaving them alone for a while and asking someone else for help would make them happy, but apparently not. That’s okay, though; you’ll figure something out.

Frisk, meanwhile, nods in sad acknowledgement when you tell them that you don’t think collaborating on puzzles with Papyrus would make a very good hobby, even if it might be fun to do from time to time.

(At least, that’s the excuse you give them: the real reason is that you don’t want to pin all your hopes of recovery on him and him alone. Even _Papyrus_ can’t possibly be willing to put up with you on any sort of regular basis, not when you’re such a screw-up.)

“I need something I can do by myself,” you say. Your voice cracks a little when you say this, but it helps that you’re basically just paraphrasing something that your therapist had told you once. “It shouldn’t be based on someone else.”

This time, not even Frisk has any immediate advice to offer, only a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.  

But not long afterwards, you get another text.

_ASRIEL!!!!!! FRISK HAS TOLD ME OF YOUR TROUBLES. IF I MAY, I WOULD LIKE TO INVOKE “FRIEND” PRIVILEGES BY OFFERING A FRIENDLY LITTLE SUGGESTION, WHICH COINCIDENTALLY INVOLVES ANOTHER FRIEND!!!!!!!!!!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

You’re a bit reluctant to go to Dr. Alphys and Undyne’s house. It’s not because you’re afraid, like you were with Sans, but rather because you suspect that Dr. Alphys is afraid of _you._ The few times you’ve ever been around her, she’s seemed nervous, avoiding eye contact and flinching whenever you opened your mouth, even moreso than she did around everybody else. That in turn made _you_ nervous, and it all became a horrible, overly-exhausting vortex of anxiety and fear.

It just seemed better for the both of you that you stayed away.

But Frisk and Papyrus aren’t exactly the kind of people that it’s easy to say _no_ to, so when they decide that learning how to cook would be the perfect hobby for you to try next, it’s inevitable that you’ll end up seeing them, whether you like it or not.

Dr. Alphys and Undyne live in a small cottage by the beach. Your mother is unfortunately busy on the day that Frisk and Papyrus ask you to go and it’s too far for you to walk, but Papyrus seems delighted at the prospect of driving you, and since you’re apparently officially friends now, you’re not sure how to refuse.

It’s Undyne who answers the door. The first thing she does is bark, in a voice like a rusty hook, “I hope you like spaghetti, _cuz that’s always lesson one!”_

“What a marvelous coincidence!” Papyrus answers for you while you’re trying to decide how one even responds to a greeting like that. “He absolutely does!”

Beside you, Frisk is doing some kind of dramatic pose that involves standing on one leg and contorting the second in an impossible angle.

“H-hello, Your Highness,” stammers a tiny voice from somewhere behind Undyne. Only then do you see Dr. Alphys. She’s not wearing her lab coat for once—instead, she’s wearing a T-shirt featuring some anime character you think Frisk likes. For some undoubtedly petty reason, the sight of it fills you with irritation.

“I’m…not really a _Your Highness_ anymore,” you say with a weak laugh; that’s friendly, isn’t it? But Dr. Alphys seems to shrink, and before you can stutter out an apology—before you can think of something nasty to say, because _ugh_ , why does she get to make _you_ uncomfortable when she…?!—Frisk leaps out and strikes another pose, this time doing something with their hands that you don’t understand.

“Oh, right!” Dr. Alphys cries, abandoning her apparent discomfort in favour of nodding vigorously, the gesture apparently having meant something to her. “The newest episode of _Mew Mew Kissy Cutie Au Courant!_ I’ve been waiting for you, Frisk! We can watch it while they, um, do their thing!”

“Those nerds,” Undyne says affectionately as Frisk slips between her legs and follows Dr. Alphys into the house. “Well, whatever. You might as well come in already.”

Papyrus accompanies you and Undyne as far as the kitchen before regretfully informing you that he has an excuse in the oven and must therefore abscond to the living room, which he does via several backflips, at which point the two of you are left alone together and you’re free to look around while Undyne prepares the ingredients.

The kitchen isn’t as comfortable as the one back home, but it’s still surprisingly cozy, given what you know of Undyne. Everything is brightly lit, a small bowl of chrysanthemums sits upon the table, and the curtains hanging at the window have a pleasant blue and gold pattern that gives the room a cheerful air despite the lived-in messiness of it all. Your worries almost seem to be evaporating, as though anxiety can’t survive in a world as pleasantly coloured and alive as this one.

They flare back to life the instant Undyne once again turns her razor-sharp gaze upon you, having seemingly finished her preparations. “Okay!” she shouts, clenching her fist. You jump, then immediately fall to attention: you have to resist the urge to salute. “Now, the thing about cooking is that you can’t do it half-assed! You gotta put your whole heart into it. You gotta put _love_ into it! Cooking is a _passionate_ art. It’s no good unless it’s something you can weep over! By the time you’re done, you’d better be _bawling,_ and _not just because of the onions!”_

“Um, okay,” you say, then you squeak as she grabs you by the shoulders and shouts, _“Feel the passion! Feel the love! WHO ARE YOU COOKING FOR?!”_

“M-my friends?” you suggest, because that seems like the sort of answer she’s expecting, and if you’re being completely honest, Chara’s face is what comes to mind first. You would like to be able to do more for them; you would like to think that you’re not just a burden.

Undyne slams a fist upon the table, rattling the assortment of bowls and spoons gathered there. _“EXCELLENT!”_ she bellows, face splitting into a toothy grin. _“FOR YOUR FRIENDS! SO LET’S GET COOKING, AND GIVE THOSE NERDS SOMETHING DELICIOUS TO EAT!”_

_Those nerds,_ you think, alarmed. Does she think you mean Papyrus and Frisk? _Do_ you? Papyrus keeps calling you a friend, and you yourself had called _Frisk_ a friend once, hadn’t you? So do they count, then? Is that okay?

You don’t have time to ponder it for very long, because before you know it, Undyne is dragging you towards the counter where she slams a tomato down upon the cutting board. “Do you see this?” she shouts. “This tomato is your worst enemy! This tomato stands in the way of your friends and _good nutrition!_ NOTHING SHOULD STAND BETWEEN YOU AND THE PREPARATION OF A HEALTHY MEAL! _NOW SHOW THIS TOMATO WHO’S BOSS!”_

You don’t _intend_ to totally destroy the tomato. It just kind of…happens. One minute you’re listening to Undyne scream about vitamins, and the next, your fist is shooting out and crushing it, sending its red innards spurting across the countertop, but you don’t stop. You just keep slamming it until your paws are totally stained red, until Undyne yells, _“GREAT JOB! YOU’RE WAY BETTER AT THIS THAN FRISK! NOW THE NOODLES!”_

Your paws are still red, dripping, but she needs you to do something else now, and so you dump the noodles in the pot and stir as hard as you can at Undyne’s urging. She roars, _“TIME TO TURN UP THE HEAT!”_ and you turn it up as high as it will go, feeling desperate for some reason, frantic with a kind of energy that you don’t understand, an energy that makes you want to scream along with her.

“LET THE STOVETOP SYMBOLIZE YOUR PASSION! LET IT BURN WITH THE FIRE OF YOUR FEELINGS!” Undyne shouts. “ARE YOUR FEELINGS A PIDDLY LITTLE CAMPFIRE? A FIRE FOR _BABIES?_ OR ARE THEY—”

“Your shitty stove won’t go _high_ enough!” you snap, and it doesn’t feel as though your voice is coming from your mouth, but rather through a wall of static.

“Whoa, Asriel!” Undyne cries in an entirely different tone of voice, sounding delighted. “I’ve never heard you swear before!”

You ignore her. Your hands come alight, and for a single, spectacular moment, it feels as though the entire kitchen is ablaze.

A moment later, you manage to restrain it. You forcibly draw your magic back into yourself, back into the soul contained within your heaving chest, even though your hands are still crackling with sparks and the urge to let the wall of flame roar back to life.

“Sweet,” Undyne says, “That’s some nice control, kid. And my house didn’t even burn down! We have a hose for that kinda thing now, but it’s nice not to have to use it. Okay, next we…”

You don’t hear her.

It would be so easy, you think. A twist of your wrist and everything in flames, or a flick of your hand and vines tearing through the ground, or—

Your hands are still red from the tomato. It’s just from the tomato, and yet your hands are still red, and—

“I’m sorry,” you choke. Undyne is saying something, but you can’t hear her; you feel as though you’ve slipped away from yourself, like you’re a ghost watching your body as it moves. And you’ve been a ghost before, haven’t you? It felt like. It felt like—

And then breath is ripping through you, twisting in your chest like knives, and you can see the red on your hands, the red on Chara’s mouth, the red pouring out of Frisk, because of _you,_ because of what you did, because you couldn’t stop yourself, and what if you can’t stop yourself again? You already know that you’re all wrong inside; what if you can’t be fixed?

“W-with me,” someone is saying. A small hand is rubbing circles on your back. A second holds your own, squeezing it gently in a steady rhythm. “Ready? One…two…three…”

You breathe, in and out on the count, and gradually, you return to yourself.

When you do, Dr. Alphys is kneeling beside you while Undyne watches from the counter with an uncharacteristically troubled expression on her face. Frisk is beside you as well, looking worried, while Papyrus stands in the doorway as though prepared to enter combat with whichever invisible enemy has left you curled up on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Asriel,” Undyne says. “I…should probably remember that not everybody likes being as, um. _Loud_ as me.”

But that’s not what happened, you think. What happened is that you liked it _too much_. What happened is that you can’t be allowed to yell, can’t be allowed to get too angry, can’t be allowed to be _too much._ If you do, then you’ll forget, and everything will start all over again.

You didn’t use fire when you were a flower. You _couldn’t._ But just now, for the briefest of moments, you had wanted to let the inferno surge to life. You had wanted to let it roar, to watch as it consumed the house. And if that’s not something you could have done as a flower, then that means you can’t tell yourself that it was just a flashback, something distinct from the you that you are now. It means that it was _you,_ and your own awful, twisted urges, your own sickness, your own…

“I’m okay,” you say at last, doing your best to smile up reassuringly at the gathered crowd. “But…can I get some fresh air, maybe?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nobody stays with you on the porch. You guess they all assume that you would rather be alone, and you’re not going to correct them, not if they don’t want to stay. You’re not worth their energy.

But then you hear small, hesitant footsteps approaching from behind as you’re leaning on the railing, and when you turn around, it’s Dr. Alphys.

“How are you doing?” she asks, hands twisting together.

_Why do you care?_ you want to spit, but instead you force a smile and say, “Oh, I’m doing fine now! I’m sorry about all the fuss.”

“Um. Are…are you really?” she asks, and much to your irritation, the doctor comes to join you at the railing, rather than skittering back off into the house the way you had been counting on.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if I am or not, does it?” you say. “Why should anybody care about garbage?”

It’s only after a beat of shocked silence that you realize that you accidentally spoke out loud.

You open your mouth to apologize, but before you can, Dr. Alphys starts to laugh.

“Oh, wow,” she says, shoulders relaxing somewhat as she cracks a tiny smile. “Same.”

“What do you mean, _same?”_ you ask, now feeling too baffled to apologize for breaking character.

“Well…it’s not _good,_ but…I, um. Feel the same way sometimes? About…being garbage?” she explains, still with that tiny, knowing smile. It’s not the sort of smile that you would expect from her, given how anxious she’s always seemed before, and you’re not sure how to respond to it. “It’s kind of f-funny. But, um. You know,” she adds, and the smile falls, her expression turning serious. “Your friends still care about you! Even if you f-feel like garbage sometimes, you’re garbage people care about! _Special_ garbage!”

“I’m not special garbage,” you say, looking away. “Just the regular kind. I hurt everybody. They shouldn’t care about me.”

The silence that falls over the two of you is a heavy one, and you wonder if you ought to apologize for that as well.

But then Dr. Alphys says, “It’s…not really up to you, though?”

At this, you raise your head again. “Huh?”

“Y-you don’t get to decide who p-people care about,” she says, and her own gaze is distant, as though remembering something she’d heard once long ago. “They just do, or they don’t. And w-we do, even if you don’t feel like you deserve it. We’re your friends, and that’s that.”

_We’re your friends._ As if that’s a privilege anybody wants. As if you’re worthy of their time or their attention or their…wait.

“You said _we,”_ you say, and Dr. Alphys blushes.

“I’m, um. Sorry,” she mumbles, looking down. “You don’t want me to call myself your friend, do you? I…I don’t blame you. Not after what I did. E-everything that happened to you…it’s all my fault. I know it is.”

There’s something so ugly about those words. Yes, a part of you had blamed her; it had been easier than carrying the burden of responsibility entirely by yourself, and you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to accuse Chara of anything, despite the part they’d played. But to hear Dr. Alphys unintentionally echo your own sentiments, after coming here to cheer you up about your _own_ feelings of guilt, makes something in your chest go cold.

And so you say, “I don’t blame you.”

And much to your surprise, you find that it rings true.

You continue, saying, “You didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. It’d be horrible for me to hold a grudge. _I’m_ the one who messed up. _I’m_ the one who hurt people. You were just…unlucky.”

“But, um. The same could be said of you, couldn’t it?” Dr. Alphys asks. “A-almost, anyway. You were just a kid, after all, and…you wouldn’t have been in that position in the first place if it weren’t for me, right?”

“But you didn’t _mean_ to do it,” you repeat. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“And you didn’t ask for it to happen to _you,”_ the doctor points out, matter-of-fact. “None of us can know what it was like for you, so, it’s not really fair to hold you completely responsible. And…maybe it’s not as simple as being at fault or not. M-maybe we shouldn’t waste time trying to figure out who to blame, because we’ll never find a satisfying answer.”

You’re not sure what to say to that.

Dr. Alphys places a hand on your shoulder, and although the movement is a little stiff, a little hesitant, it still feels almost comforting. As though she can understand, somehow.  

“Y-you’re not the only person who’s ever made mistakes,” she says. “I know that that, um. Can be kind of hard to remember sometimes?  And, sure, yours were a little… _different_ than most, I guess. But who’s to s-say that any one of us would have coped any better in your position? S-so, if you try and make amends, and don’t do it again, then you’ve done all you can do. Blaming people…blaming _yourself_ …won’t really help.”

You swallow.

What she’s saying sounds so logical, in its own way.

But it can’t be true, can it? You did awful things; therefore, you’re awful. For her to pop up and say _I’m sorry for what happened to you,_ as though you have any right to be in pain, doesn’t feel fair. If you’ve suffered, then it’s just what you deserve for causing everybody so much harm.

Still.

Although everything still feels like static, although a part of you still wants to be able to pretend you hate her, you find yourself smiling—a true smile this time—and you say, “Thank you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When you go back inside, you find that Undyne, Papyrus, and Frisk have started making cookies.

Undyne gets you to help her make the tea to go along with them. The process is a careful one this time, apparently because she picked up her tea-brewing method from your dad, and although it tastes like boiled leaves—the way tea always does—there’s something kind of nice about it all the same, particularly in the way that everybody laughs and chats together as they drink.

You yourself don’t talk about anything in particular, and yet it doesn’t feel as though you have to. They don’t seem to mind that you simply sit and listen, and for some reason, you don’t feel like a fifth wheel for once.

Your heart is a swollen thing in your chest when you leave afterwards. It’s been so long that you don’t immediately recognize the feeling as _contentment._ Your instinct is to identify the tenderness as bruising and assume that something has gone wrong; it’s only later, when you realize that you’re smiling unintentionally, that it occurs to you that maybe things wound up going fairly well after all.

“I can’t believe you got to drink tea with Undyne,” Chara says almost enviously when you tell them about it later. Their needles clack together viciously; the green, unidentifiable object has become a lot longer now, as though the sheer force of their anger was enough to stimulate its growth.

“We only drank tea together because I went crazy,” you point out. “It was supposed to be spaghetti.”

“Crazy tea with Undyne is still tea with Undyne,” they sniff. “She’s _cool._ Take me with you next time. Even if it _is_ spaghetti. Why do monsters always eat spaghetti, anyway?”

_Is there even going to be a next time?_ you wonder as Chara goes off on a rant about pasta.  

But.

Undyne promised she would show you how to bake those cookies, even if you don’t really want cooking lessons anymore. She promised you that baking would be different. And Papyrus is friends with her anyway, and Dr. Alphys wound up asking if you wanted to watch that cat show with her and Frisk sometime, and…

And you guess there are a lot of reasons for there to be a next time, after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Yet again, you don’t sleep well that night. But eventually the morning comes, and you have to get up and face the day regardless

 

 

* * *

 

 

It surprises even you when you decide to speak with your father next. Nobody suggests that you do it: nobody gently pushes you in his direction, the way they had with everybody else. Instead, you think about the tea you had with Undyne, and how she’d said that he had been the one to teach her, and you find yourself thinking _that’s an idea._  

You’re not entirely sure why you even want to learn. Chara’s the one who likes tea, not you. It’s not as though there’s anything _wrong_ with it, of course, but whenever they invite you to take a sip from their cup, you inevitably find yourself making a face from how bitter it is.

Still, you _do_ need to find a hobby, and Chara will probably like it if you learn how to make it. You still like the thought of learning how to do things for them so that you don’t feel like such a leech, and it would be nice, maybe, to have something you can do with your dad that won’t leave you feeling depressed.

Things with your father have been strange ever since you came back. You hadn’t _chosen_ to live with your mother, exactly: it just kind of happened, without you having any say in it at all, and the infrequency of your visits means that seeing him feels like an occasion now. An awkward, stilted occasion, with him asking far too many questions about your mother and your life that you shouldn’t have to answer, not to a parent who should _know_ already.

You haven’t yet been able to figure out how you feel about their separation. The you who’s still a child feels almost responsible and can’t help but long feebly for the safe, comfortable family that had been stolen from you, while the you who’s seen a thousand years feels almost relieved, having already lived through countless versions of their collapsing marriage. The rest of you is too tired to care.

You can only pray that your father won’t be overcome by painful memories when you ask him to show you how to make tea the next weekend that you’re at his house. You’re not sure if you can handle that.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem particularly heartbroken or nostalgic when you do. In fact, he seems quite pleased.

You ask him when Frisk and Chara are out of the house, having gone to the park with their phones out to play some game that you don’t understand, and he responds with a broad smile before ushering you into the kitchen. The room is decorated almost entirely in shades of yellow, with ruffled curtains the colour of butter hanging at the window. The sunlight pouring in through the gap turns everything it touches gold and leaves you feeling almost afraid to enter, as though you’ll spoil the picturesqueness of it all if you do. But your father doesn’t seem to notice your hesitation, entering the gold without fear so that he may begin to collect his tea things from the cupboard.

At the tea shelf, your father tells you, “Choose whichever one you like.”

You almost panic: you know nothing about tea, so how are you supposed to select the right one? But then he picks three tins and holds them out to you, one by one, and just like that, with the choice made a little smaller, it’s a little less intimidating. You still know nothing about tea, but you give each tin a sniff and finally choose lavender. The leaves in that one smell the sweetest, so hopefully it will taste sweet as well and not like the bitter, smoky stuff Chara prefers.  

The lesson that follows is surprisingly restful, all things considered. Your previous experiences with looking for advice on hobbies had led you to expect disaster—or at the very least a lot of awkwardness and shouting—but your father seems almost serene as he goes about the business of brewing up a pot. It’s something he does often, you suppose. Not just the making, but the teaching. He’s obviously well-practiced, and the advice he offers all comes naturally, not like he has to stop and think about it.

“Always use freshly drawn cold water,” he tells you as he fills the kettle. “A good rule of thumb is, one teaspoon for each person who will be drinking,” he adds as he scoops in the tea leaves. And even when the tea is done and he’s pouring each of you a sample cup, he still apparently has wisdom to impart, saying, “You may add sugar if you like, but I would ask you to try the tea by itself first. Sugar can mask the flavour, and this blend is already fairly sweet, so it may not be necessary.”

You wait for him to sit down and try the tea himself before you lift the cup to your mouth. The aroma is a sweet one, and the flavour is light, almost minty.

“What do you think?” your father asks, watching as you sip it with a tiny smile on his mouth.

“It doesn’t taste like mud,” you say, surprised. “Chara’s always does.”

He laughs at that. “I am sure it does not _always,”_ he replies. “But son, if you thought tea tasted like mud, then why did you ask me to show you how to make it? Do you enjoy the taste of mud now?” Then, a little more thoughtfully: “Or is mud some kind of new slang?”

“Mud is mud, dad,” you say, taking another sip. You guess it doesn’t need sugar after all. It’s fine the way it is. “And I asked because I’m supposed to find a hobby, and…I guess I thought there would be more to this, since you and Chara like it so much. But it’s just a drink.”

“It is not _just_ a drink,” your father replies. “Although I suppose some people may think of it that way. For me, it is more about the ritual. I find it meditative.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, it can be difficult to explain,” he says, and he lowers his gaze, looking into the cup, as though he can see something in the golden liquid that you can’t. “It can be pleasant to occasionally take time out of your schedule for something purely self-indulgent. If it were simply about the beverage, then I could toss a tea bag into a mugful of hot water and be satisfied. But to take an hour or so to properly prepare and savour it provides me with time to reflect and to relax. That is what I most enjoy: being alone with my thoughts.”

You swallow, then set your cup down with a _click._

For the first time all afternoon, your father’s serene expression changes, becoming one of mild concern instead. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

You try and give a reassuring laugh, but it comes out sounding far more hollow than you intend. “No, it’s fine,” you say, hoping that he didn’t notice. “But I’m not sure how much I’d like that kind of thing, actually. Maybe I’m not a tea person after all!”

You push away the cup, and your father sets his down as well.

“I understand,” he says simply.

_“Do_ you?” you ask, perhaps a little skeptically.

But then your father smiles sadly, and you realize, too late, that he must. Of everyone you know, he would likely come the closest to understanding how you feel, even if he can’t really get it either.

“Of course you would not want to be alone with your thoughts,” he says softly, still staring into his cup. “I cannot imagine that they are very happy right now. It makes perfect sense. I would feel the same way, in your position.”

“I thought you’d tell me that I shouldn’t run away,” you mumble.

“You shouldn’t. But you cannot spend the rest of your life devoted to regrets, either,” your father says. “Eventually, you must move on.”

“But if let myself forget, then I might do it again.”

_It._ What even _is_ it? You don’t even know, sometimes. All you have is this general notion that you’re a mistake, but that you can’t allow anyone to know how much that fact haunts you. If you do, then you’ll just make things harder for them.

 “I did not say you should forget,” your father corrects, as calmly as though he’s telling you that you’ve been pouring tea wrong. “I said you should move on. If you do not, then past regrets will continue to shape your behaviour. So that you do not eternally repeat those same mistakes, you must accept that you made them in the first place, then take steps to see that you do not make them again. But beyond that, there is nothing more that you can do. Dwelling on them serves no purpose. It is better for everyone if you entrust the future to your good intentions rather than your shame.”

You frown.

This, like so much of the advice that people give you, makes everything sound so easy. As if you can simply _decide_ to no longer dwell on your regrets.

But coming from your father, it feels different, somehow. Your father has his _own_ guilt to deal with, his _own_ lack of forgiveness to accept—coming from him, these words don’t sound like mindless platitudes for once, but rather something you could actually try.  

“I don’t need tea for that, do I?” you ask, wary.

“No, probably not,” your father answers with a tiny smile. “But tell me, what else have you tried?”

You tell him. You tell him about asking Chara about knitting, about trying to make friends, about word puzzles and cooking and how Dr. Alphys has invited you to the next anime night and how lately you’ve been thinking you might kinda wanna try an instrument.

“I don’t know what to focus on, though,” you finish, lifting your cup to your mouth to take another sip, only to find that your cup is already empty. When did that happen? “None of them feel quite right, and…I don’t know. It’s hard. I don’t know if I can do this alone, but even when people say that it’s okay, it’s hard to believe that any of them actually want to help me. It always feels like pity, like I’m annoying them, and it’s…awkward, always worrying about whether or not they actually forgive me.”

“That is another reason why it is important to come to terms with your regrets,” your father says. He picks up the teapot, a delicate china one painted with swirling pink roses, and holds it out to you with an inquisitive look. You nod, and he pours you another cup before setting it back down. “If you do, then it will not matter so much whether they forgive you or not.”

“How can it not _matter?”_ you demand.

“Because some people may never forgive you,” he replies simply. “Their _feelings_ matter, of course, but you cannot change them. You should not let that hold you back from your own personal growth.”

“But it hurts,” you say. “And it’s hard to go on, sometimes, when I feel this bad about it. So what am I supposed to do? How do I feel better?” He opens his mouth to speak, and quickly you add, “I know that me feeling better isn’t the most important thing! It’s just…how am I supposed to even _want_ to keep trying, when everything feels so discouraging?”

_Why bother,_ something asks, curling unseen vines around your throat, cutting off your air. _Some people’s mistakes are just too big for them to ever be redeemable. Maybe you should…_

“Forgive yourself,” your father says.

“I can’t do that,” you answer immediately. It’s impossible, plain and simple. No matter what you do, this sickness, this depression, this awful, ugly _guilt_ just doesn’t want to go away. It spikes and wanes, and although sometimes it’s more bearable than others, it’s always present, always _there,_ like a lingering disease. Maybe you can hide it from the eyes of others, masking it with kind and clever words, but you’ll still know, better than anyone, what you’re like inside—how angry and selfish, how horrible and petty. How are you supposed to forgive yourself when you know better than anybody else that you don’t deserve it?

“It is hard, of course,” your father acknowledges with a solemn nod of his head. “But again, some people may never forgive you, and you cannot force them to be a step on your path towards self-acceptance. Yet if you can find a way to accept yourself, even those parts that you may not be as proud of, then their opinions will not matter as much. Does that make sense?”

“About as much as anything else, I guess,” you say, and your father chuckles.

The conversation the two of you share over the rest of your pot of tea is a mild one. He asks you about school and you ask him about his garden, and by the time the pot is empty, Chara and Frisk have returned and it’s time to begin preparations for dinner.

All throughout the evening, your mind returns to your father’s words time and time again.

You wonder: is that something you can do? Can you forgive yourself?

Before, you would have answered _no._ But your father had phrased it as though it were the most efficient course of action, not simply a means of self-soothing.

Maybe he’s right. Punishing yourself endlessly accomplishes nothing, so maybe it _would_ be better for everyone if you could simply stop. If you’re not always mired down by guilt, then you won’t need everyone to take care of you whenever you become depressed; if you’re not always holed up in your room, then you can actually be _helpful._

If.

It’s an awfully big _if._

You don’t think it’s something you can actually accomplish yet. Your self-loathing runs too deep.

But maybe someday, you’ll be able to follow his advice. Maybe someday, you won’t feel this way anymore.

It’s the most hopeful thought you’ve had in months.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Like all things, the weekend eventually comes to an end.  

Before your mother comes to pick you up, your father gives you a small box of lavender tea to take with you.  

“Even if you do not wish to drink tea habitually, it might be nice to have a cup every now and then,” he says. “This blend in particular is very calming. It may even help you sleep, should insomnia be troubling you.”

A box of tea shouldn’t be enough to make you cry.

“Thank you, dad,” you finally manage to say around the lump in your throat.

“It is the least I can do,” your father easily replies. “Especially as I cannot always be there to offer you a cup myself. You must take care of yourself in my place.”

You throw your arms around him, and while there definitely aren’t tears in your eyes, when you pull away, you think there might be in his.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When you have trouble sleeping that night, you don’t simply lie awake in bed for once, tossing and turning and letting your self-loathing knock about your head.

Instead, you get up and make your stumbling, sleepy way towards the kitchen, where a small box of lavender tea is waiting for you in the cupboard.

Not wanting to bother with the kettle or the stove, you decide to be a disgrace and simply boil a mug of water with your magic. You steep the tea using one of Chara’s strainers, and although it tastes a little funny when you try it, it still has that gentle, minty flavour you remember from the weekend, and so you decide it’s good enough.

You take your tea into the living room, thinking to finish it there before once again trying to sleep. But then you stop in the doorway, because someone else is already sitting there.  

“Oh,” you say. “Hi, mom.”

“Hello, Asriel,” your mother answers with a smile. She’s sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, an open book resting on her lap. Despite the late hour, she doesn’t seem at all surprised to see you, as though she was expecting you. Still, she adds, “It is late, you know,” and you bow your head, ashamed. “What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you explain. You curl your paws a little tighter around the mug. “Dad gave me this tea. He said it might help.”

“Well, if there is one thing your father knows, it is tea,” your mother grants in a tone of voice that seems to be implying _not that he knows much._ “I am sure that he chose well. Do you need me to do anything to help?”

“No, it’s fine,” you say.

Your mother nods, then slips a bookmark in between the pages of her book before closing it. “You know,” she says conversationally, lifting a hand to adjust her glasses slightly. “When you were younger, I seem to recall you being unable to sleep unless your father or I read to you.”

“I don’t need a bedtime story, mom,” you say, exasperated. It takes all of your strength to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. From what you can remember, your mother’s idea of a bedtime story usually involves reading one of her textbooks out loud. “I’m not a little kid _._ Look, I didn’t even put any sugar in this.”

“Yes, so I see,” your mother agrees with a solemn nod. “Still, maybe you can humour this silly old lady just this once?”

You don’t want to say yes, but it’s hard to resist your mother’s gentle suggestions-slash-commands when you feel as weary as you do right now. So you finish your tea—not that there’s much to finish—and then before you know it, she’s leading you back to your bedroom by the hand, just like you’re five years old again.

“I don’t need a story,” you repeat as you climb into bed. You’d felt strange and somewhat shivery before, all hollowed out from the unpleasant thoughts that had kept you from sleeping peacefully, but you guess the tea has already begun to cast its spell: your eyelids feel all heavy now, and your entire body feels like it might melt into the mattress.

“Maybe not,” your mother says. A hand smooths down the fur atop your head. In the dark, you can see her silhouette framed by the glow-in-the-dark star stickers you and Chara stuck all over the ceiling one lazy afternoon. “But I am feeling a bit nostalgic tonight. It feels like it has been quite some time since I had a child to tuck in.”

“You had Frisk,” you say dryly.

You feel awful the moment the words leave your mouth, but like so many of the stupid things you say and do, it’s already too late to take them back.

“So I did,” she agrees. “But I did not have an Asriel.”

Her voice is perfectly steady, and if her lip trembles, if her eyes grow wet, the room’s too dark for you to see. But the possibility alone is enough for you to nod and say, “Okay,” despite your embarrassment.

Your mother’s hand once again passes over your forehead. She leans forward, pressing a kiss there, and says, “You know, I have been reading a very interesting book recently.” She says it almost conversationally, not at all like you’re a screw-up who keeps saying and doing the exact wrong thing, no matter how many times you tell yourself that you need to be good. “In the name of fostering your mental development, I wonder if that ought to be what I read to you?”

_“Mom,”_ you groan.

“Asriel,” she promptly retorts, and with a gentle pat on the head, she says, “It is a very interesting book. I would like to share it with you, if you will permit me.”

“As a bedtime story?”

“You are humouring me, remember?”

With a sigh, you close your eyes and pull your blankets up close around your chin. “All right,” you say, and you try and brace yourself for a litany of facts about the human anatomy or something. If nothing else, at least it will probably help you sleep.

But the litany never comes.

Instead she says, “It is called _72 Facts About Sons.”_

Your eyes snap open. “Huh?”

“Shh. It is a real book, here in my hands, and I have decided that it would be very educational for you to hear from it,” your mother says.

She hasn’t even turned on the lamp to see, despite holding a book open on her lap. “I don’t believe you,” you say.

“The first fact is: I love my son very much.”

“Mom—”                             

“The second fact is: that he is worthy of this love, despite whatever may have happened in the past,” she continues, utterly ignoring you. “The third fact is: that I am very proud of him, for trying so hard to get better.”

“I’m not, though,” you croak. Your throat is already clenching; your eyes are already stinging. Why do you always _cry?_ Is this really better than not feeling anything at all? “I’m not trying hard enough yet. I could be doing so much more. I haven’t even found a stupid hobby yet.”

“The fourth fact is,” your mother continues, and if it weren’t for the hand still resting lightly on your forehead, you might have thought that she’d forgotten about you completely. “That even if it takes a while, and even if there are occasionally setbacks, my love for him will not change. It never has, not even after all these years.”

Tears, huge and hot and wet, come spilling down your cheeks, and you can’t seem to stop yourself after that.

Before you know it, you’re in her arms, held close against your mother’s chest as ugly, noisy sobs go tearing through your body.

You guess you’ve always been a crybaby.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you think she must have still been holding you, because for once, your dreams consist of neither painful memories nor terrifying emptiness.

Instead, you dream of feeling loved.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You hadn’t thought the book was real, but then your mother comes to you one day and presses a small notebook into your hands. When you open it, you find pages and pages full of her tidy handwriting _._ One line in particular catches your eye: _I am worthy of being loved_.

“You may have trouble remembering some of these things on your own,” she tells you with a smile. “So that will be your study guide. You should review it periodically until you have them memorized.”

You almost ask if there will be a test, but you’re too busy feeling stupidly ashamed and grateful to be sarcastic.

So you nod, and tuck the book into your pocket, and although you don’t open it that day, too embarrassed to read through the affirmations, just the thought that they exist makes you happy enough to cry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For some reason, it doesn’t really surprise you anymore that someone in your life would go to so much trouble just to try and help.

Maybe help gets easier to accept over time. Maybe _everything_ does. Or maybe you really _are_ starting to change, if only a little bit.

It’s an awful lot of maybes.

Not enough for you to feel completely comfortable yet.

But it’s enough for you to smile, at least, and to feel, more often than not, that it’s not entirely fake anymore.

And that, at least, is progress.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You have friends now who text you _goodnight._ You have lavender tea to drink before bed and a book that’s full of loving words to read. Your ritual before had been nothing more than falling onto your mattress only to be kept awake by the roar of your depression, but your ritual now gives your mind kinder thoughts to cling to as you sleep.  

And that, too, is progress.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day you find yourself digging under your mattress and recovering the drawing tools you’d stashed away is the same day Chara creeps up behind you and drapes something green over your head. It falls into your eyes, and so you tear it away, where you can see that it’s a scarf, forest green and fringed.

“Oh,” you say.

“You’ve been growing too much,” they say accusingly, red eyes narrowing. Even so, they kneel beside you, and then the two of you are crouching by your bed together, a pile of old sketchpads sitting between you. “I can’t make sweaters for you anymore. They take too long, and by the time I’m done you’re three sizes bigger. So I made a really, really long scarf this time.”

“Oh,” you say again, still staring at the pile of wool in your hands.

With a roll of their eyes, Chara takes it from you and winds it properly around your neck. “Should I do a bow?” they ask, sounding contemplative, but they don’t wait for your reply before doing it anyway.

“Um.”

“Look,” Chara adds. They lift one of the ends and flap it, waving the fringe in your face. “It’s got these long bits. You can play with them, and twist them really tight around your fingers. It’s better than scratching yourself up.”

You would go pale if you could. “I don’t do that,” you lie.

They don’t argue, at least. They only raise their eyebrows, letting you have the fib.

“Is that why you didn’t want to show me how to knit?” you ask, glancing down at the big, dumb bow they tied for you. It looks silly, but you don’t think you can bring yourself to undo it. “Because you were making this?”

“No,” Chara answers easily. “Because I thought it would be better if you went to someone else for help for once.”

“Huh?”

“You said before I was the only one who understood you,” they explain. They reach for one of your notebooks, a waterlogged one that’s clearly seen better days. It doesn’t occur to you to tell them to put it down until after they’ve already opened it, and by then, the tiny smile dancing on their lips means that you can’t possibly do so now. “It was the same for me. That’s why we always helped each other, right? But the last time we refused to let anybody else get involved, we both died. So I decided we need _more_ people who understand us.”

You’re silent for a moment, processing this.

“Chara,” you say. “I love you, but you can be a jerk sometimes.”

They frown at that. “Rude,” they say, snapping the book shut.

Ignoring this, you add, “You could have just _said_ that, instead of letting me think that you were sick of me.”

“If you thought I was sick of you, then why did you keep talking to me?” they ask, cocking their head. “I know I never specifically told you _go away,_ but…?”

_“Because I suck!”_ you snap. “Because I get dumb and lonely a lot, and even somebody who hates me is better than nothing!”

“But you don’t _have_ nothing,” they point out, replacing the book on top of the pile. “You’ve been hanging out with a lot of people lately, haven’t you? I’ve seen how long the list of contacts in your phone is now.”

Huh.

That’s kind of a weird thought, for someone so used to feeling lonely.

“If you really, really want me to, I’ll show you how to knit,” Chara continues. “But only after you’ve found something else to do. Is that what all this stuff is for, by the way? Are you going to start drawing again?”

You shrug, reaching for the waterlogged book they’d just been looking at. “Maybe.”

You still don’t know if you want to, you reflect as you open it and begin to turn over the crumpled pages. You used to love art, but all of your old stories still feel poisonous, and none of your ideas have been very fun lately.

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” Chara asks.

You swallow.

But then you smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Maybe.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, you get up.

You do the same the next day and the next day and the next. No matter how hard it is, no matter how heavy your body or your heart may be, you try. You try and you try and you try, and even though you sometimes stumble, you finally begin to feel something like determination again.  


End file.
